Shadow Rites

While we talked, Bruiser stared out the windows, not adding to the conversation. It didn’t take a genius to realize he had discovered something in my house. Or on the grounds. Or on the street. When we pulled up to the Eighth, I said, “Are you going to tell us what you found?”

“Yes,” he said, sounding somber and distant. “After. I’ll be waiting out here. Brandon is inside. He’ll take care of you.”

I wanted to argue, but it was late—or early, rather—and if Bruiser was withholding info, he had reasons that might have something to do with deniability. I opened the limo door and went back into cop Eighth.

* * *

It took remarkably little time to straighten everything out in the Eighth. Eli and I were both very agreeable to share everything that had happened and that we had done, which helped. Having a high-powered lawyer there to assist didn’t hurt, but the real reason it went so easy was the presence of a sleepy, irritated commander, who was still on the premises. We made nice-nice with the local po-po and were out in less than an hour. Back in the limo, which had parked around the corner, Bruiser said, “Debrief, if you please.” He still had that distant, worried look on his face.

We pulled away from the curb as Eli and I filled him in, and he studied the still shots of the witches Alex had sent to our cells—and which we had offered the cops. Bruiser shook his head. “There isn’t enough for me to ID them. The ward magics are too intense. Perhaps Lachish Dutillet or Jodi Richoux might be able to recognize them through the wards, though I doubt it.”

Lachish was the New Orleans coven leader. Jodi ran the woo-woo department, with Sloan Rosen as her second. “I’ll get Alex to send them,” I said. “And to the Everhart-Trueblood clan. Heck, I’d post them on the Web site if I thought it would help stop whatever they’re up to.

“So,” I said, taking charge of the subject. “Your turn. Why are you so wonky?”

Bruiser smiled, his eyes regaining some of the warmth they had lost. He was opening a bottle of champagne, his hands working as if from muscle memory, his eyes on me. “Wonky?”

“Distant, dismal, dreary, detached, drab . . . worried, apprehensive, and anxious.”

“Ran out of words starting with D?” he asked. He poured me a glass and handed it over. I had to wonder if he was trying to get me drunk. And then lots of lovely reasons why he might want to do that leaped into my brain and I went breathless. I smiled at him, waiting. Bruiser smiled back, as if he could read my mind, his expression warm. Heated even.

“Get a room,” Eli said, sounding snarly. Or jealous of our lovey-dovey stuff. He hadn’t seen his honey bunch in a week.

Bruiser poured Eli a glass, passed it to him, and poured a glass for himself. The glasses were real crystal and rang when we followed his example by lifting our glasses and clinking them, then sipping. I didn’t make a face. It wasn’t horrible but it wasn’t beer. As Bruiser might do, I lifted my eyebrows in question.

Ignoring my inquiry, Bruiser closed his eyes in appreciation of the champagne. When he opened them he said, “It’s possible that the scan of your house was more than simply a scan. It was likely an initial attack of some sort, possibly for a future goal or need. And despite the witches being gone, this may not be over.” He looked at me, his brown eyes hard.

I took another sip of the champagne, waiting, knowing I wasn’t going to like this.

He said, “I told you I intended to do a search of the house and grounds while you changed clothes. I found no traces of magic anywhere inside or on your grounds. But in the alley where you were taken and where the two witches disappeared, I found this.” Bruiser reached over and opened the liquor cabinet. From it, he removed a foil-wrapped object, about four inches by three, and about half an inch thick. He placed it on his suit-pants-clad knee and carefully removed the foil, folding back the layers that were wrapped around and around. As he worked, I drew on Beast-sight and the thick flash of magics were instantly visible. The energies were a bright glow, light green, the exact shade of the scan that had gone over my house.

When the foil was unfolded, the pale green energies glowed with power, so bright I had to close my eyes against the brilliance. With my eyes slitted against the glare, I studied Bruiser’s find. It was a brooch, the focal stone a large green jewel carved into a scarab. There were peacocks to either side of the scarab, the birds facing away from the green, beetle-carved, central gem. Jeweled tails swept up and out from the birds and over the scarab, their jeweled peacock tails spreading above it.

“Are they the same color energies used by the women in the working?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “Where did you find it?”

“In the alley. From what you said, it was possible that they dropped it when they fled, possibly why the younger woman screamed, unable to retrieve it or keep it from being captured by the police. The older woman may have stopped her from going after. Or . . .” He turned the brooch in his hands, the long fingers brushing the edges as if reading the magic. “Or it could be bait leading to a trap.”

“Why leading to a trap?” Eli asked. The limo made a left turn and the green energies wafted off to the side in a slow trail of light that even Eli could see. “The energies point west,” he said, understanding.

My internal compass was pretty good, but Eli’s was better. He said he had iron filings in his nose so he always knew which way was north. I hadn’t laughed. He might have been serious.